


Pitch Black

by Pukka



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012), tangled - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark!Rapunzel, Gen, Non-Consensual Violence, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pukka/pseuds/Pukka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rapunzel wasn’t alone in the tower all those years. Someone had invaded her dreams, turned them to nightmares, and twisted everything she’d ever known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitch Black

A man. An actual man. After all the stories, after all the things she’d been told or read she had never expected an actual man in her tower. It was her sacred place. Her safe place. Pitch of course didn’t count, he wasn’t a man any more than she was. He was however the closest thing she had to a friend and he had told her what actual men did to young girls when they thought no one was looking. Pitch had told her a lot of things. Like, for example, that hitting someone across the head with a frying pan left a lump but no marks and was easier than a punch to knock someone out with.   
It had worked perfectly. The man lay on the floor at her feet, vulnerable and exposed. How had he got there? Who was he? It would be so easy just to tip him out of the window and be done with it but she was too curious. Gothel had cursed her for it. Pitch had nurtured it. Between them she had learnt about the world outside her window; vicious ugly thing, she wanted no part of it. They didn’t know everything. There were still questions without answers.  
The man stirred. He was from somewhere- she recognised him. Rapunzel arranged her face into one of a naïve eighteen year old, the very same one Gothel knew. Big eyes, easy smile. No one ever expects an attack from someone who doesn’t wear shoes. Especially if that someone is female and wearing a pink dress. People were stupid. The man groaned, laying a hand on his swollen head.  
“What was that?”  
“Why are you here? How did you find me?” Rapunzel made sure her voice shook and held the frying pan out in front of her with two hands. It was such a pity there was no one around to appreciate her wonderful acting.   
“I thought this place was empty. I didn’t know.” He sat up.  
“You lie.”  
“I don’t care what you think. Just don’t hit me again.”  
“You were being chased. Why?” Rapunzel let the frying pan drop as if she were too weak to hold it up any more. It was so fun to toy with him like this.   
“I had a disagreement.”  
“About what?”  
“It doesn’t matter.”   
“Tell me.” She didn’t like his tone. But then remembering she was playing the part of a sweet and innocent girl she smiled, “I’m sorry. I don’t get out much.”  
“That’s sad. Now pass me my bag.”  
She handed it over and he snatched it from her grip, a greedy glint in his eye. Where did she know his face? He made back towards the window.  
“Can’t you stay? I’d like you to stay.” Her voice was disgustingly girlish.   
“I should be going.”  
“What if they catch you? Sit. For five minutes.” A smile and a blush. He was clay in her hands, a bit of pressure and she would shape him into something beautiful. Pitch would know what she was thinking. He was the architect of her nightmares. He knew everything. Including, it seemed, the strange desire he’d woken. The one where she wasn’t trapped or restrained but allowed to tear and rend and slice until blood seeped into the crevices of her soul and stained the deepest recesses of her mind. And who better to experiment on than the wanted criminal Flynn Rider? Oh she was going to have fun with him.   
“Tea?” She called over her shoulder, pleased to see he’d chosen the large oak chair. It wouldn’t break if he struggled.  
“Yeah okay.”  
Rapunzel slipped her hand into a drawer and pulled out a neatly wrapped bundle of knives. Everything from a meat cleaver to a fish gutter. It really was a beautiful set, and one she had wanted to try out for a very long time. Meat was fine but it didn’t writhe or squeal like she wanted it to and imagination could only take you so far. Of course Gothel had been an option. But over the years despite herself Rapunzel had grown fond of the old crone, she was too pathetic to carve up. The rope lay behind the cooker. As the kettle boiled on the stove she strode over to Flynn and had him bound and gagged before he even knew what was happening. Eyes wide he struggled as she smiled.  
The game was beginning.   
What to start with? There were so many choices and such sharp knives. A finger maybe? Or that pretty pretty face? She choose a long think blade. So delicate. It slid along it skin easily, not breaking it, not yet, tracing the contours of his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. Oh she was going to enjoy this. She was going to enjoy this indeed.   
When Pitch had first entered her life she had cowered away, ran and hid like all children would. But as she grew her fear melted away. Replaced by curiosity she would long for the night just to see him. It was a dare to herself. How far could she go? How much could she take? Fear was the drug that reminded her she was still alive and on some days it felt like adrenaline was the only thing pumping through her veins. He took her as a personal challenge it seemed. Every nightmare more explicit, more gruesome, than the last. Every sleep ending drenched in sweat and screaming. Still she crawled back for more. At sixteen he had spoken to her for the first time. Just a single word. Why? The answer was a smile. Soon after the dreams of knives and blood had began. And she loved them. Since then all she had wanted was a person on which to act out her favourite nightmare.   
Flynn whimpered, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he rubbed burns into his wrists. Really she had expected more. A show of heroics maybe, at the very least silent defiance. If he wet his pants she would throw him out the window.  
“You think I don’t know who you are?” Rapunzel straddled him, one knee on either side of his hips, knife held high. “You think I don’t know the things you’ve done?”  
He tried to throw her off. Tried.   
“Shh now. No need to spoil the fun now is there?” She leaned in close, practically whispering in his ear. “It’s going to be beautiful.”  
Her knife glinted in the sunlight. Steel met flesh in a shock of red and a scream. The ear was in her hand, limp and useless. Blood covered her hands, her dress, the floor. Deep dark scarlet. Oh it was gorgeous. A giggle bubbled up from somewhere near her spine and erupted out. It joined muffled yells and breathless gasps and created a perfect melody. A song she could thoroughly enjoy. It was everything Pitch said it would be. It was better.  
“Don’t you go passing out on me.” She tapped the side of Flynn’s face, his head jerked up. “We’re just getting started.”  
Under her his body had gone limp. Shock probably. It was only an ear! Real shock would come from something proper. Like a finger. Or a hand. Not leaving her position Rapunzel lent towards her bundle of knives and rummaged around. Cleaver. Perfect. She let him see it. Let it reflect in the centre of his eyes. He struggled again but she pinned him with her hips, enjoying the power immensely. For a split second she wondered what he would taste like. After all humans were just meat wrapped in consciousness weren’t they? But she banished the thought. Standards had to be maintained, she wasn’t a savage.   
The bone cut cleanly. The sign of a good knife Gothel had always told her that. You never see a butcher hacking at a piece of meat, she said, his knives are good knives. And Rapunzel was so much more than a butcher. Oh she was an artist. A sculptor creating raw red beauty out of imperfection and stardust. Just listen to the chorus sing her praise. The soloist was so loud, so piercing. And the sobs only added another layer to his performance. She would give him a standing ovation when his show was over. Expression. Wasn’t that what art was all about? He was her protégée, her dénouement, her pièce de résistance. This was as much her as it was him. Artists left their mark not only in the minds of their fans, but the bodies and souls as well. It was only right that she should leave hers.  
An arm would do nicely. But of course he would bleed out and he wasn’t beautiful enough to die yet. Her name, her signature, would have to do. A smaller knife was chosen. More agile. It was just as sharp. He yelled as she carved the ‘R’, kicked and bit by the time she reached ‘u’, moaned on ‘e’, and downright screamed through ‘l’. It was barely a scratch! He had an awfully low pain threshold. Pity. A bit of gritted teeth would have been nice. Every symphony needs a moment or two of silence.   
Rapunzel stood up to admire her work. It was good but it wasn’t enough. There were still so many things that could be done, and by the colour still left in the criminal’s face there was more than enough time to do them in.   
Her nightmares were coming true.


End file.
